“But it was never empty,” I admit. “Even when I wanted it to be.”
His gaze doesn’t leave mine. Not once.
“Somewhere along the way,” I whisper, “it stopped being about who you were to me back then…and became about who you are to me now.” My throat tightens.
“I love you, Karson.”
The words don’t feel dramatic. They feel like the truth that I fought tooth and nail to keep repressed for entirely too long. Simple and inevitable.
He doesn’t react right away. No sharp inhale. No stunned silence. Just stillness. My heart thunders in my ears, causing my head to throb. I hold my breath, waiting for him to say something…anything. I feel vulnerable in a way I’ve never felt before. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than I’ve ever heard it.
“Love doesn’t begin to cover what I feel for you.”
My breath catches. He leans closer, careful of the wires and the bruises, his forehead resting lightly against mine again.
“I don’t just love you,” he murmurs. “Love is small. It’s temporary and something people fall in and out of every day. You’re not something I fell into, or grew into. You’re not a habit or a comfort.”
There’s no apology in it. Just the truth.
“I didn’t fall for you.” His gaze hardens. “I built myself around you.”
The words hit harder than any confession.
“You were the only thing in this world that ever made staying feel worth it,” he says. “Before I ever even knew what that meant.”
My chest tightens.
“You’re not something I could fall out of,” he says quietly. “You’re not something I could survive losing and just keep going.”
His hurricane orbs lock onto mine.
“You’re the constant. You’re everything. Love will never be a word big enough, but I do love you.”
The words settle deep. Like something that was always true finally said out loud. My throat tightens, and I don’t trust my voice enough to try. So I don’t. Instead, my fingers curl weakly in his and I close my eyes.
“I know,” I manage to whisper. Because I do. I’ve always known.
His thumb brushes across my knuckles, slower this time, like he’s trying to ground himself now. The moment hangs between us–fragile, quiet, real. He softly presses his lips to my forehead, careful of any injuries I might have.
I don’t even want to know what I look like right now.
Just then, the door opens and Parker steps inside, her movements hesitant when she sees us like this. Relief flashes across her face first, before morphing to concern.
“Ash,” she breathes softly as she moves toward the bed.
Karson doesn’t move away from me, but the world rushes back in anyway. The beeping machines, the sterile air, and the weight of everything that waits outside of this room.
His phone vibrates in his pocket twice. We both feel it, and he goes still before reluctantly standing from the bed. Parker’shands cup my face, turning me toward her as she checks me over. Her fingers brush my hair, eyes softening when they meet mine.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, her amber gaze filled with worry.
“Like shit,” I say as I try to sit up further in the bed. She helps, placing her arms under my armpits to lift me, relieving some of the pull I feel in my lungs.
My gaze slides to Karson, who watches us carefully before stuffing his hand in his pocket and pulling out his phone. He stills, scanning the screen before letting out a breath. His eyes lift to me, then to Parker.
“I already know,” she tells him. “Go.” She nods toward the door.
He doesn’t move. His phone hangs loose in his hand, screen still lit. His jaw works once like he’s trying to grind something down that refuses to break.
